


Drinks

by Flutiebear



Category: Compilation of Final Fantasy VII, Final Fantasy VII, Final Fantasy VII: Advent Children
Genre: Gen, Memories, Midgar Edge, Post-Canon, Pre-Canon, Survivor Guilt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-27
Updated: 2014-02-27
Packaged: 2018-01-14 00:06:28
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 901
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1245355
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Flutiebear/pseuds/Flutiebear
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"He'll buy you a drink, but you have to tell him a story." Reeve and a survivor of the Sector 7 disaster mull over mistakes, guilt and new beginnings over drinks in Midgar Edge. Originally prompted and posted on Tumblr.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Drinks

**Author's Note:**

  * For [jkateel](https://archiveofourown.org/users/jkateel/gifts).



> Jay prompted me with “he’ll buy you a drink, but you have to tell him a story,” and I loved that so much I immediately wanted to do something for one of my favorite FFVII characters, conflicted company man Reeve Tuesti. 
> 
> This takes place sometime between the end of FFVII and before Advent Children. (Those are the only two installments of the franchise I’ve seen/played, so I apologize if this isn’t canon-compliant with something else in universe.)

He’ll buy you a drink, but you have to tell him a story. Doesn’t even have to be a happy story, really. In fact, says the pretty girl behind the bar, he likes it better when they’re not.

“Reminds me that we’re alive,” he says.

“Yeah, we sure are the lucky ones,” you reply, as you tug down your sleeve to hide the black geostigma welts on your forearm. You aren’t fast enough. He sees them anyway, then politely looks down at his drink.

“We sure are,” he says, without blinking.

So you tell him a story. Yours is about life before Meteorfall, about a husband and a wife and two kids, and a dog who liked to drool on the sofa. There were football tournaments, and violin lessons. On Sundays your heroes would order a pizza and watch one of those televised singing competitions together, _Midgar Idol_ or _Midgar’s Next Voice_ or _The Shinra Song and Dance Spectacular._ You can’t remember the name.

His face softens. He knows why you’re telling him this story, and how it ends. But he’s not impatient. He lets you finish in your own time.

“Then the plate came down,” you say. 

“Then the plate came down,” he sighs into his beer.

“Lots of people died that day.”

“Both above and below,” he adds without emphasis.

You wait, but he doesn’t apologize. Not that you’d accept it, anyway, or see it as anything other than an invitation to smash that immaculately-pruned goatee right through his teeth. You still might. But, unsatisfyingly, he doesn’t make a sound.

You might feel disappointed, if you still had it in you. Instead you just hang your head in your hands.

“Tifa, dear,” he says, motioning to the pretty bartender. “Another round, please.”

In silence you watch as Tifa refills your drinks, then as the bubbles in your glass rise to the surface, almost like little Materia. Not that you’ve seen the real thing in years. Materia are gone now, along with the Mako. Relics of now-ancient history. Just like you.

“My story ended that day,” you say eventually. “Or it should have, except…” You gesture feebly in some vague direction that’s anywhere but yourself. “Now I gotta figure out how it ends all on my own.”

“It’s not fair,” he offers.

And that’s the opening you’ve been waiting for. “You’re damn right it’s not fair,” you scream. “All those people, and for what? A goddamn cover-up, that’s what.” You pound your fist on the bar, drawing Tifa’s gaze, but the man doesn’t blink, even when you wag your finger in his face. “Was it worth it, company man? All those people? Tell me, were my two kids worth it?”

“No.” You think he might be about say more, _admit_ more, but you won’t let him – you couldn’t bear it.

“And now you think you can just come in here two years too late and fix everything with your WRO and your guns and your oil. Like that makes everything better. Like it’ll even make a difference.” Your anger fades. Suddenly, you feel exhausted. You’re glad to have a beer in front of you, something familiar, an anchor. “We’re all still gonna die in the end anyway.” 

“And when we do, they’ll be waiting for us.” He turns toward you, and you draw back – you didn’t expect him to speak. Now that he’s facing you, you can see the deep lines around his mouth, the grey streaks at his temples. Whiskers. Stripes. Like an old tomcat past his prime. “Your kids, and mine, and everyone else. And we’d better be ready for them.”

“R-Ready?” This isn’t the answer you expected, not from a company man. You expected guilt, self-pity. But not this, this – _determination._ Like he has some stake in what he’s doing.

It’s all wrong. And yet…

“We’d better be able to give them some answers,” he continues. “To account for our actions. To at least tell them we tried. That’s what they'll want to hear, I think.”

As he talks, you can hear a faint drawl creep into his voice, a slumdog inflection penetrating his newscaster baritone. You didn’t expect that either. But there’s a lot about him you didn’t expect. You came to this bar expecting to find a company man, and instead you found another relic, another survivor. Just like you.

You sigh and take a pull from your beer. “So what are we supposed to do now?”

“We remember, we pull through,” he says, “and then we find out how the story ends together.”

“Together,” you chuckle dryly. “Just like that?”

He nods. “Just like that. After all, we’re all we have left.”

“Huh,” you say, draining your beer and standing up to leave. You feel an odd sensation. If you were a sentimental sort, you’d think it might be hope, but it’s more likely just the bubbles fizzing about in your stomach. “Guess it’s worth a shot. But don’t think this means you’re forgiven, or any of it’s forgotten.”

As you walk past him, the corner of the man’s mouth twitches; you can see it in the mirror hanging above the bar. It’s not a smile or a smirk or even a grimace – it’s something infinitely sadder.

“Be careful of forgetfulness,” the man mutters, and you’re sure he thinks you can’t hear. “Your lucky color is blue.”

You don’t ask him what it means.


End file.
